Personal Victory
by CampionSayn
Summary: Sometimes, it's nice to see someone want to drop by unannounced in a neighborhood they usually wouldn't be caught dead in…unless it's actually in the gutter, gunned down buying drugs. Anyway, the coffee's nice. Trilogy piece and ending.


Title: Personal Victory  
>Summary: Sometimes, it's nice to see someone want to drop by unannounced in a neighborhood they usually wouldn't be caught dead in…unless it's actually in the gutter, gunned down buying drugs. Anyway, the coffee's nice. Trilogy piece and ending.<br>Disclaimer: I am not making any money from any of this, so please try to refrain from a lawsuit from this.  
>Warnings: Part of a trilogy, not a lot of romance (if this can be called anything close), sappy fluff and mention of BrucexSelina.<br>Dedication: To **fan boy for rongo** once more, as it was put into light that there is a wanting for these as chapter fics, which I cannot give, but will make do with this as an ending.

* * *

><p><em>-:-<br>__Maybe being grateful means recognizing what you have for what it is. Appreciating small victories.  
>-Gray's Anatomy.<em>

* * *

><p>Silver teacups. What had ever possessed her to let Bud and Lou drink from the cups that looked to be from Wonderland—bought in a mad recollection of Jervis and the things twice the size of her fists—every morning that she was home had been forgotten a few months ago. But, to be fair, it was kind of cute, and the cups were some of the few things the very large hyenas hadn't wrecked that they ate from.<p>

Loose frills. Untying the belt that kept her terrycloth bathrobe closed, Harley sighed in relief as the air swirling about her apartment from her fan and air-conditioner finally made contact with her skin, lathing her sweat and pores lovingly, like a caress from a lover in this freakish Indian summer that had swept across the city. Ninety degrees in October? Seriously, Gotham just loved screwing with her children to see how long it could go until they all snapped and either left the city for cooler districts or started rioting.

Eight bell chimes. Her clock went off and she flinched like an abused cat at the noise, unconsciously bringing her hands to close her robe once more, eyes flickering from where she sat near her Babies on her second hand, floral printed sofa to the door with the three locks on it, to the window that oversaw the street and other apartments in her living room and then back down at her hyenas; each with their snout in their own cup of goat milk they liked—blue for Bud and blush for Lou. She could never mix them up or they got mad.

Depression in the shoulders. She couldn't help but be a little on edge; over the last two weeks almost all of the Rogues had gotten out of Arkham—Red, Professor Crane, Hatty, Eddie—and that included Joker. She wasn't afraid of the others, but she had the idea stuck in her head that before Joker left, he might have tried to check her records Leland kept and found her address; even if it wasn't there. Still, even if it wasn't quite rational, it wasn't unfounded. Batman himself had found his way to her doorstep a few days after her lunch with Mr. Wayne again to "check up on her"—his words; she had used others like "harassment"—and if the pointy eared rodent could find her, so could Jack.

Deep and old and rustic papers. She sighed and went back to looking over the files splayed out over her little coffee table, her morning coffee with honey turned cold already sitting precariously close to the file she had open, the name in deep black Harvey Dent standing as the title. God forbid one of her old friends should drop in on her reading on them. At least, thank God, Two-Face was still in solitary after that incident between him and Red the week prior.

* * *

><p>Broken windows and lots of cigarette butts. Bruce could remember the layout of the building when he had come in nights previous, but was finding it hard to stomach actually seeing the place in daylight hours. It was hard to fathom that it actually looked better during the night—at least in his Kevlar he hadn't taken notice of certain parts of the area that would give the health department a wet dream. Standing out on the front stoop just staring at the button on the bell grid in his nine hundred dollar suit, he was finding it hard to remember a time he had felt less conspicuous.<p>

Fiddle, fiddle, decided. Sucking in breath, the brunette finally pressed the button that had the right apartment number as well as a smiley face sticker on the side of it; the buzz was loud enough to increase the annoyance building behind his eyes like getting stomped on a curve. How he loathed apartment buildings with buzzers that sounded unfitting even to a dying fowl.

Shuffle and a crash. His blue eyes blinked owlishly as, after a moment or two, the woman he expected to hear brought her voice through the microphone installed for this thing, the sound of something heavy hitting the floor inside the apartment following with her, "_Yes, um, hello?"_

"Uh, Miss Harley? It's Bruce Wayne," ah, perfect start to a conversation; saying his name out loud for everyone in the building to hear as two of his other fingers pressed two other buttons, brilliant, "I was in the neighborhood and was wondering if you'd like to come out for lunch."

Dead air. It was a second or two before she answered again, in between him getting rather worried, but she finally responded with the sounds of panting in the background, "_Oh, uh, sure I'd love to—Bud, get off the sofa!—go out, but, well—no, Lou, mommy doesn't have any more breakfast—could you come up and wait a few minutes? I need to get dressed to go out."_

No time. He didn't answer as she was cut off by the sounds of the alarm in the door going off, delightedly alerting Bruce that he had indeed been buzzed in. It took him a blink to remember to move or he would be locked out and have to ask her to press the button again.

Oak, shattered glass, graffiti. Bruce walks carefully up the stairs to where Harley's apartment is, right up to the third floor. Though, one cannot blame him, as every step he takes leads to the floorboard beneath into a groaning fit until he moves on to the next step, trying not to touch the dust and cigarette ash on the handrail that Harley's neighbors liked to use to have parties against before they even got to their own apartment. He had run a background on most of the people in the building and, though it was filled with two people charged with a BNE or two, five women of the red light district and a landlord that should have been charged with endangerment but had the charges dropped every time (something he would be looking into, no doubt), Bruce was fairly certain that Harley could handle the place.

New paint, all white. Coming to her door, Bruce couldn't help but crinkle his nose at the smell coming from the entire hall; all white paint and paint thinner in mass amounts, as well as ladders and brushes and equipment left out in the open by the people the Superintendant had no doubt hired and the billionaire had passed by on the way from outside, loitering the stairwell and eating foot long sandwiches; each with a cigarette sitting passive aggressively on their lips. He knocked three times and was greeted quickly from the other side of the door with sounds of three locks coming undone.

Tea Rose, Bergamot and Catwoman. When she opens the door and quickly ushers him in so the hyenas don't get out—he pretends he can't hear her say hyenas, he pretends and will continue to pretend that she's saying and housing and keeping really big and weird looking Golden Retriever/Rottweiler mutts, especially if her probation officer ever questions him—he notices two things: first, she is wearing underwear, a bra and a robe and nothing else. Second, the entire apartment smells like how he remembers his mother used to smell, as well as something sort of like Selina. It's not bad, but ignoring the smell really isn't an option as the robe Harley's wearing is so worn out that he can almost see through it and glance over the rather loathsome scars decorating all of her. He will focus on the smell and pretend she isn't practically naked while trying to pry her pets away from them.

Exasperation. Visiting Harley would be so much more practical if Bud and Lou couldn't recognize that he was Batman even without the pointy ears, leather and Kevlar and with the added bonus of him putting on extra cologne that reminded him of Alfred and had a British name.

Attractive to the eye. Bud being the most aggressive was pulled into the kitchen by Harley holding out a treat and promising that she would dress quickly so that her Babies wouldn't eat him—he could go ahead and take a seat if he wanted. He stayed in a standing position, looking about the place with just his eyes and a tilt of the head and with Lou The Less Aggressive surveying him with distrust while sitting next to the coffee table.

Simplicity is the key. The place screamed cheap and flea market and second hand, but it was cozy and small. It cleaned up a little like Harley herself, with little reminders—Bruce would bet his mass fortune—of all of the people who had made up the last years of her life. A bookcase full of psychology, analysis on some theories on fear (the biggest with the author being Jonathan Crane) and the most used book was _Alice's Adventure in Wonderland_. He could make out the window in the kitchen with two large pots of red and white roses and ivy creepers hugging the window frame. The only remnants of days gone by were the New York Times crossword puzzles all completed in ink with only a few mistakes. Somehow, she had a fireplace and little nick-knacks littered the mantle—an upright crocodile, a pretty she-dwarf in ballet, a marionette standing on its own while holding a human hand tied to the strings and cut off at the wrist and last, but not least, a familiar coin that Bruce remembered flipping into a fountain after a problem with Dent. Above those, like an angel or devil watching over the pieces, was a large painting of a gorgeous pair of panthers, one much smaller than the other and obviously female glaring out into the face of whoever looked at the painting as the other slept with his head on the other's shoulder.

"I love what you've done with the place since the last time I was here," he called out, ears pricked and tuned in on the slight racket she was making in her bedroom as she got dressed, hissing about doing laundry very soon to herself. He smiled secretly, bending over the open files on her desk, Lou growling when he moved to actually touch one of them.

"Oh, well, thank you," she called back, her door rattling a couple times as a result of what he guessed must be shoes hitting it, a clattering of jewelry following like bells, "It took some doing, but now the place finally feels like home. It's good to know that I haven't lost all of my sense over the last few years—least of all fashion."

Indeed.

Giving up on the scheme. Bruce backed up a few steps towards the kitchen when it became abundantly clear that Lou would sooner rip off his arm than let him touch the papers, feet tapping the floor like a cat's paws and silent as he listened in as Harley cursed one more time before opening the door.

Perpetual Lady of the Entertainers. Despite himself, he finds that she is pretty in a simple kind of way that she never was before. In an extra large red button-up shirt that nearly touched her knees with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows she could have looked like a kind school teacher. With the black, worn jeans and leather with laces up boots, she could have looked like a starving artist. But with her hair in a single ponytail, a purse that looked like a computer satchel and perfume Bruce knew for a fact belonged to Selina recently, Bruce thought to himself that she looked…Not dead sexy; that title went to Talia. Not beautiful; that label belonged to Selina. Cute wasn't quite right, but it seemed to fit as she locked the door with their exit of the apartment, him offering to buy them both some coffee at the café seven blocks away in a friendlier territory.

* * *

><p>Mom &amp; Pop, maybe twenty years ago. The café isn't exactly what Bruce is used to, but Harley assured him that the coffee and the food are rather good and certainly beat out the McDonalds ten more blocks away. The inside was clean, a stark difference from the graffiti outside and the Dark Knight couldn't recall ever having come to the place to break up a gang war or stop a drug deal, so he would believe her, so long as the apparently non-English speaking Russian cook in the back didn't wreck his order.<p>

"So, most of the high ranking doctors at Arkham have been pestering my company for the last four weeks to see if I could recommend another chief of security for Arkham again," Bruce started, dry for conversation as he was still bothered and thinking about where the tiny blonde could have possibly gotten her perfume from, "What do you think about that? Your name wasn't on the agreement forms."

_Strong Enough_, by Sheryl Crow. The music lightly singing from the speakers above their heads played out unnoticed as Harley shrugged, looking over the slightly water marked, coffee stained menus that gave the information on the eateries food, "I didn't agree with them. The chief of security we already have is fine. Nice lady, doesn't enforce total brutality, honest, couple of kids and much better than that rat bastard Bolton."

Very piqued in interest. Bruce frowned and winced to himself from behind his own menu at the mention of the complete psychopath of an ex-employee of Wayne Enterprises, "Fair enough. Though, if that new chief of security wants to stay, I think she might want to tighten the leash on the Rogues. Most of them did escape recently."

All knowing, not all powerful. She finds herself grinning like her old self when she had an especially useful trick up her sleeve and ignores the young man and woman in the other window seat two booths behind both her and the billionaire, even as they suck face in the most obnoxious way, "Oh, it's not the security guards' fault. A Rogue can get used to anything, so long as they're not stuck in a cage."

"It's not a cage," Bruce defends, glad that the waitress finally comes their way, "It's treatment."

"Potato, tomato, walks like a duck, et cetera," she shrugged, grabbing his menu and folding it into her own as the waitress parked beside them, her light blue pen clicking as she took both menus and took out her receipt.

A tired southern accent, dark red hair, couldn't be older than twenty-two, had a smiley face button on her apron. The waitress asked without pause and without blinking what they would like, rolling her eyes as Bruce insisted that Harley was a lady, he would pay, she would order first, with her reluctantly conceding. Being a waitress could make these reactions so predictable.

"Mocha latte, the Orange Freesia salad and the double-decker burger with fries."

"Cherry Cola, chocolate milkshake extra-thick and the twelve inch Poorboy turkey sandwich."

Click, click and away. As the waitress left them alone, Harley immediately elaborated on what she was saying, like it was a secret in the schoolyard at Catholic boarding school that shouldn't be shared between members of the opposite sex; devious but not unkind, "Don't you ask Selina these sort of things after you're done having sex?"

Cherry red. The blush is something he cannot help, even if he is Batman and can do almost anything. Quinn and Joker have always had the uncanny ability to say just the right or wrong thing in order to get a rise out of him. This event in this tiny little café is proof enough of that.

"So, you have spoken to Selina," he coughs up finally, one fist covering his mouth, "I was wondering where you got the perfume. You two are friends?"

"Well," now it was she who was fussing over nothing, fingers playing with one of the locks of her bangs, "Friends might be the wrong word. She sometimes just pops by when she's bored or a few of the other Rogues have…uh, you know, snuck out after curfew. And she said the perfume was nice; do you not like it?"

Truth.

"Hm, I do actually. It's just," he pauses, not at all thinking of how this actually would sound to someone else, "She's my girlfriend, you're a friend. I don't think her smell belongs on your person. I liked what you wore before much better."

"…We're friends?"

Awkward pause. The waitress deposited the food and was nice enough to leave the check stuck underneath Bruce's plate that held the salad, with their drinks standing an inch apart and their straws just touching—like two people shaking hands.

Twin smiles. The realization of what he said comes to light, and in the back of his mind, he can't find anything wrong with nodding, enjoying the little light that comes to her eyes as they take their own drinks, and he replies.

"Yes, I think that we are."


End file.
